I turned away from her, breathing heavily. Why was I so angry? I had nowhere to go, but why should that make me dependent on her and her aunt? I could find another place to be, couldn’t I? I could break into another house and squat, as I had so many times before. There were clubs, cafés, dens I knew that could tolerate someone like me: they were part of the subculture.
My heart was pounding, I was hyperventilating and I could feel my transition points flaring up and feeling hot. There were—
The next thing I knew I was on the floor of the car, staring up into Kestrella’s face—was that a tear in her eye?—writhing like a wounded animal at the pain down my left arm. Pain like a hot needle pushing down into my wrist, where the keyboard poked out—one of my transition points. She had pulled up my sleeve to see what it looked like and the expression of horror on her face made even me feel frightened. I don’t know how long I’d blacked out for, but Dominic had stopped the car and he too was reaching over me, his mirror shades reflecting the white noise on my monitor.
He’d opened the fridge and got out a spray can of I-So-L8 and was spraying it on to the affected area. It felt cool. The soreness gradually faded away, the white noise went, a screensaver picture of one of my favourite bands now bounced off Dominic’s shades as he pulled away from me and Kestrella breathed a sigh of relief, the tear gone.
She turned to Dominic: “Are we nearly there yet?” she said.
I always liked coming to Salvation House. The building itself was Victorian redbrick, but with a modern wing, all light, gleaming glass and potted plants. It seemed happy in spite of the suffering it held; it appeared to hold its darkness easily. This was due to the staff, who always tried to give their dependants hope that it was possible to get better and one day lead a normal life.
Of course, no one ever had.
But that didn’t matter, it was the feeling that counted; that you were among people who cared. Many of the willing workers here were volunteers, and the hospice survived on grants and donations given by anyone who could get beyond the idea that hybrids should be feared or blamed for their condition. But there weren’t many compared to those who did fear or blame them.
This place owed so much to the personality and drive of one woman: Cheri Dubois. She had been, from the time when she used to hoist me on to her knee and sing nursery rhymes, ma tante Cheri, my mother’s elder sister.
She was now behind the door I was looking at, inside an examination room with a nurse and this obstinate boy who I’d finally managed to drag in here, but under a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep.
They were inside for ages. I passed the time by having a cappuccino and a Danish pastry in the caféteria in the leafy conservatory with Dominic and some of the regular drop-in visitors. They came to pick up medication, have a massage or a check-up. I read the adverts on the noticeboards, about campaign meetings, fundraising events, therapies such as herbalism or acupuncture, and pleas for supportive carers for newly registered sufferers, who needed a sponsor to avoid being sent to the dreaded Centre for Genetic Rehabilitation.
No one could stay in the hospice forever. Pressure on space was too great. Cheri had told me that last year they had 1300 people passing through their doors, but they only had beds for thirty-five at any one time. And it was getting worse.
I left Dominic in the café and wandered to the residential section in the quiet south wing where the smell was antiseptic. When I popped in on Julian, he was sitting up in bed looking as thin as a stick insect. He was sixteen and yet his skin was like brown paper stretched over chicken wire. His eyes were trying to hide deep in their sockets, but shone with electrical energy. His body seemed to hum like a generator.
“Kestrella darling! You look more beautiful than ever,” he smiled weakly.
He let me kiss his gleaming forehead. He could read the expression on my face.
“I know I still look ill,” he said,“but don’t worry. I’m going to be fine. They say there’s no cure for the pandemic. But I reckon I’ve found one.”
“Really, Julian?” I said, sitting down.
He paused to sniff some sort of inhaler. “I’ve taken control of my life. I don’t eat bad food any more. That’s why I got ill before—you know. I treated my body like a rubbish bin. God, why did I hate it so much? I do my exercises. And I’ve become a Buddhist.” I noticed, in a corner of the room, a low table with a statue and candles. “I meditate. I picture my body being healthy and fit. And it’s working. Isn’t it, Angie?”
His nurse, had entered the room. She smiled but gave me a knowing look.
“Well, you certainly look better than you did when you came in and no mistake.” Angie checked his pulse. I didn’t know what the exact nature of his condition was—it wasn’t polite to ask and he hadn’t told me. “I really hope it works, Julian. I’ll be rooting for you.”
“You were here yesterday. Has your aunt got you on the payroll?”
I laughed. “No, I’ve brought someone in. A rather special patient.”
His eyebrows lifted and he tried to prop himself up on one elbow but failed. “Really? Do tell…”
I stood up. “Later, Julian. I have to be sure he survives the night first. I’ll be back soon, OK? I just popped in to check on you.” I pecked his forehead and smelt his aroma of stale apricots. “Take care now.”
As I left, I bumped into a boy in the corridor. As soon as he saw me he blinked his eyes and opened his mouth. A roll of paper fed out along his tongue and a photograph materialised on it. He handed me the photo. “See you around,” he said and walked off.
I looked at the picture. It was me: with a huge bleached out nose and rabbit eyes. Did I feel as scared as I looked?
I passed Maeve’s room. She was a thirteen-year-old in a bed specially engineered to accommodate the electronic keyboard that extended from her arms and fingertips. She smiled weakly at me as a nurse gave her a painkiller.
I started as someone pounced on me from behind. “Hello, kid!” It was Cheri. Steel-grey bouquet of hair, piercing grey eyes, tall, and dressed in a new version of her customary blue linen trousers and matching jacket that I thought made her look like a cleaner. She took my arm and steered me down a well-lit corridor bustling with staff and visitors towards her office. “You’ve picked a right one there, haven’t you?” she said.
“What do you mean? How’s Johnny?” I asked.
“Asleep. We’ve put him in Elton John Ward. He’s going to be in la-la land for a very long time if you ask me. Mon dieu, he’s been living on the edge for so long he doesn’t know which way is up.”
“But will he be OK?”
“Not sure yet. He has multiple infections. We’ve put him on the standard course of antibiotics and Stabil-O-Gene. Now we wait for the test results to come in. Here.” She ushered me into her office, which, although she was the director of the hospice, looked much like all the others. “Come and sit down. You look pretty wired yourself.”
“I’m OK.” Cheri’s desk was covered with paperwork. Two monitors blinked. There were flowering plants.
“You picked him because…”
“Er…” I felt put on the spot. “He’s unknown to the authorities and he appears to be a computer genius.”
“And now you’ve met him?”
“He’s…not what I expected. Younger, and more insecure than I thought.”
“Yes. Will you still ask him?”
“Why?